Tristan and Isolt Heather Dale

Who knows not the tragic lay of Tristan and Isolt?
The fair-haired Cornish harper whose hands held steel and string
And Ireland's greatest treasure, borne like Helen 'cross the water
While the waves approaching bowed before her beauty

All who've heard the telling know the blind and bitter Fates
Placed the cup of love's sweet poison to unconsenting lips
And as plank fell home to timber and the king beheld his lady
Carols rang within the church and seagulls screamed

All the harpers laboured on their agonies of passion
Unfulfilled and ever straining like lodestones to the north
But few will ever mention how the cold breath of the Northlands
Let them lie at last as one without deceit

When Tristan could no longer bear the shame of guilty conscience
He took ship to far Bretagne, half-hearted and bereft
He cast aside his music, cut the strings which brought him joy
And took solace in the fury of the field

Praise grew up around him like the corn around a boulder
As the Cornishman did battle with demons in and out
In singing sword and thunder, Tristan vainly sought distraction
Yet she whispered in the silence of the slain

In the way of warriors rewarding noble heroes
Fairest Blanchmaine of the Bretons was given for his wife
But Blanchmaine knew no pleasure from her cold and grieving husband
For the marble face of memory was his bride